Canticle for a Cardsharp
by CaptainOfMySoul87
Summary: "Though often surrounded by them, young and pretty women were not a common distraction for Rothstein. So what was it about this one?" - Rothstein cashes out after a good night of poker and happens across an alluring young temptress with onyx hair and sapphire eyes. After haunting his consciousness, how will Alice Cohen become ensnared in Arnold Rothstein's web?
1. Chapter 1

"I see your three hundred, Mr. Rothstein, and I raise you another four hundred."

Arnold Rothstein took a delicate sip of milk from the tumbler in front of him and sighed lightly. This poker game had been going on for only four hours, but it seemed interminable at this point, given the company in which he was being forced to mingle.

"Very well, Mr. Perlman," Rothstein said tightly, flashing the middle-aged man opposite him a tense and forced smile. He pushed forward the appropriate number of chips and glanced down once more at his cards. He had a decent hand; three queens sat gracefully fanned among his dole, staring at him with gloomy eyes.

Edgar Perlman, the owner of a furniture factory in Queens, placed his hand neatly on the table for Rothstein to see. He had two pairs: two jacks, two aces, and a three. Rothstein, without so much as an upward twitch of his lips, took a steadying breath and placed his three of a kind on the table.

"Shit!" Perlman cursed, burying his face in his hands. He hadn't gone all in on this hand, but he'd gone damned near it, and his dwindling supply of chips was a testament to Rothstein's poker prowess. It was bad form, Rothstein thought, to clean a man out in a cash game. So he silently pushed his sizeable stack of chips toward the dealer, who gave him larger denomination chips in exchange.

"Good evening to you, Mr. Perlman," said Rothstein, nodding to his distraught opponent. He picked up his bowler hat from its place on the chair beside him and rose to his feet. "I do not think I shall be interested in investment here. You may cease all further communication regarding the matter, if you please."

As he stalked to the cashier's counter to make good on his winnings, Rothstein glanced around the shady casino and shook his head with disdain. Edgar Perlman himself had invited him here, because the factory owner had just bought into this underground gambling establishment and thought Rothstein might want a piece, as well. If Rothstein injected some funds into the place, Perlman had reasoned, it could expand into Manhattan's shining new phoenix of casino gambling.

It was late in the summer of 1921, and there seemed to be little money to be made in the gambling industry in Manhattan. Well, that wasn't entirely true. The adept professional gambler, like Rothstein, could make millions while living in Manhattan. He simply needed to conduct his gambling elsewhere, as the proliferation of New York casinos that had dotted the borough in the previous decade had faded, one by one. This smoky, boozy, speakeasy-cum-poker den was unimpressive at best, Rothstein thought, and sleazy at worst. He wouldn't sully his hands with a place like this. He was above this.

He wasn't above the $6,500 worth of chips he held in his hand, though, and as he approached the cashier's desk, he slid the chips across the counter and glanced up.

When he did, he felt his thick eyebrows rise, quite of their own accord, for the young woman serving as the cashier was strikingly beautiful, and Arnold Rothstein seldom took note of random women.

"Looks like it was a good night for you," the young woman said gently, picking up Rothstein's chips and quickly adding up the total in her head. For a long moment, Rothstein did not answer. He simply stared, like some sort of utter speechless fool, at the young cashier. His mouth fell ajar as he absently tried to acknowledge her remark, but all he could do was take in her appearance.

She was petite in stature – short and thin and just as small as a woman should be in Arnold's mind. Her chin-length black bob framed a face that was sharp and angular. From beneath thick lashes, she watched him stare with her own gaze, which was sapphire in color and deep as an ocean. A long, thin nose led down to full, pillowy lips, which smiled politely at him. The rouge on her alabaster cheeks matched perfectly with the rose shade of her silk cap-sleeved dress, from which emerged lithe and slim arms.

Rothstein took a deep breath to steady himself, as he so often did, though this breath felt uncomfortably shaky in his chest. It was just the high of winning, he told himself, and the thick smoke in the room. It was the dizzying reek of alcohol, of illicit whisky, which was making him so susceptible to the wiles of the young cashier. He was a man steadfast in his constant pursuit of profit, and though often surrounded by them, young and pretty women were not a common distraction for Rothstein.

So what was it about this one?

She was staring at him expectantly, like she was waiting for him to say something in response to a prompt. Rothstein could not, for the life of him, remember what the cashier had said in the first place, so he cleared his throat and straightened his bow tie with quivering fingers.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked courteously.

"I just said that it seems like you had a good night, Mr. Rothstein," the girl said again, her eyes flicking down to the chips in her hand.

"Indeed," Rothstein heard himself say, his voice sounding distant and hollow. The corners of the girl's pillowy lips curled upward in a friendly grin, and her blue eyes softened. She held up one finger, urging Rothstein to wait, and she bent down to cash him out. She rifled around behind the counter for a while, and then finally emerged with a neat stack of bills in her hand.

"One hundred, two hundred, three hundred…" She began counting the bills out for Rothstein, making a point to take a break at every thousand dollars. Rothstein wasn't paying attention at all to her counting; he didn't even count along to make sure that she wasn't cheating him. Instead, he watched her lips move as she spoke the numbers. He watched her delicate little fingers flick down the bills one at a time, and he stared at her cobalt eyes as they intently focused on the task at hand.

"Six thousand, five hundred dollars," the girl said finally, sounding rather out of breath. "Whew!" She giggled a little bit, and the sound was like the tinkling of bells in the unpleasant din of the casino. "Would you like this in an envelope, Mr. Rothstein?" she asked politely, pulling out a worn-looking yellow envelope from behind her counter.

Rothstein didn't answer her question. "Why is a woman as stunning as you employed in an establishment as sordid as this?" he blurted, taking the stack of hundred dollar bills from the counter. As he realized how uncharacteristically forward and flirtatious he had just sounded, he counted out five of the bills and left them on the counter. The rest he tucked into the pocket inside his suit coat.

The cashier looked taken aback by Rothstein's question. "I… erm… I sing here, sometimes," she stammered, her angular cheeks suddenly flushing red with embarrassment. "I like to sing. It's hard to find places that'll let me do it. When I'm not singing, I work the desk."

Rothstein nodded once, rather curtly. "I might be able to assist you in locating more… reputable… venues in which to share your vocal talents," he said thoughtfully. "Miss…?"

"Cohen," the girl answered at once. "Alice Cohen."

"Miss Alice Cohen," Rothstein repeated softly. He pushed the five hundred dollars on the counter toward her. "In gratitude for your superior counting skills," he said with a little grin, but Alice smiled graciously and shook her head.

"I can't…" she started.

"But you can," Rothstein countered. "Consider it advance payment for your first performance."

Alice's grin widened as she drummed her fingers on the wooden countertop. "You don't even know if I can sing, Mr. Rothstein," she insisted slyly.

"I'll bet you can," Rothstein nodded, pushing the bills toward her again, "and I'm something of a betting man. If you'd like a chance to sing at some more respectable establishments, and not have to work the cashier's counter, please do come to my office on West 57th Street, tomorrow evening, around six."

He nodded his farewell and turned to walk away from the cashier's counter before the girl could insist he take his money back.

Arnold Rothstein collapsed into his bed that morning at 6 o'clock, shortly before the sun came up. He assumed that his wife Carolyn was still soundly asleep in her own bedroom next door, and he thought he, too, would be asleep within moments.

He wasn't. An hour later, he was lying on his back, staring at the whirring blades of the ceiling fan as the gray light of dawn crept in through the windows. His hands folded neatly over his chest as Arnold Rothstein realized that for the first time in many years, a woman had managed to sufficiently hijack his consciousness so as to make sleep evasive.

Their encounter had been brief – too brief, Rothstein thought ruefully as he considered the glitter in her cerulean eyes. It had hardly been sufficient for him to be so disturbed and distracted by the cashier girl… by Miss Alice Cohen. He didn't know where she lived, where she'd grown up, or if she wound up going home to a waiting lover. All Rothstein knew was that Alice Cohen was strikingly beautiful and had no business whatsoever cashing out chips in a seedy joint such as the one in which he'd played poker the night before.

Rothstein's heavy eyelids fluttered shut, and he focused on the slow, steady whoosh of the ceiling fan blades. All he could see in his mind's eye, though, was Alice's piercing blue gaze, the sharp angles of her high cheekbones, her pillowy smiling lips… quite unexpectedly, Rothstein found himself rather wanting to find out what it would be like to press his lips against hers, to give her a kiss and see how she reacted.

Rothstein cracked his eyes open and thought of his wife in her own bedroom. She had to have been the most neglected woman in New York, Rothstein thought with a hint of chagrin. And it wasn't even as if there had been dozens of others in her place, either. There had been a few, most of no consequence whatsoever. Bobbie Winthrop, the Broadway baby he'd met in 1913, was still living in an apartment that Rothstein funded for her, and he saw her perhaps once a month for a tryst. She was the only one of any significance, but even she sometimes couldn't hold Rothstein's interest.

Neither Carolyn nor Bobbie had captured his imagination the way this cashier girl had done. Alice Cohen – almost certainly Jewish, Rothstein thought with curious vexation, as he reminded himself how fiercely his parents had opposed his marriage to a Gentile like Carolyn.

Poor Carolyn. He'd not kissed her in weeks; he'd not made love to her in months. It wasn't that Rothstein didn't enjoy sex. What man did not enjoy sex in some form or another? It was, instead, that he did not particularly enjoy sex with Carolyn. There was some degree of incompatibility between them. In the very early days of their marriage, Carolyn's personality had compensated for the fact that Rothstein found it difficult to stay aroused with her. Now it was harder to keep up the ruse. Her body did not excite him. Most of the time that he tried to complete the act with Carolyn, it was after a long night of gambling, and he was so exhausted that sleep was a far more attractive proposition than sex. And so Rothstein had spaced out their encounters more and more until he hardly ever saw Carolyn at all.

He hadn't made love to anybody in over a month now, and he hadn't touched himself, either. He realized this truth as he thought again of Alice Cohen's vivid blue eyes and enrapturing little smile. In his mind, he was pressing her against the mahogany bookshelves in his office, his smooth hands drifting over her tiny form as she writhed against him. His fingers were entwined in her inky hair, mussing her bob and holding her head tightly as he raked his teeth over the delicate skin of her swan-like neck...

Rothstein felt a stirring between his thighs as the sordid thoughts flooded his tired mind. A sudden heat flushed through his loins and he felt himself hardening at the idea of claiming Alice Cohen for his own. Sure, he'd only seen her once, had only spoken with her for five minutes, but it was enough to do him in now. Rothstein felt a torrent of heat rush through his veins as he continued to fantasize, until his member was pressing uncomfortably against the muslin fabric of the underwear beneath his nightshirt.

With a little sigh of exasperation, Rothstein hiked up his nightshirt and unbuttoned the underwear with trembling fingers. Once he'd freed himself and had his cock in his hand, his whirling consciousness returned to painting unclean pictures in his head. His neatly maintained fingertips began to glide over the tip of his member, drifting aimlessly around the silky skin there as he imagined the girl behind the counter at the casino.

_She was lowering herself to her knees, grinning wickedly as if she had a naughty secret she was dying to share. Stray strands of cropped, inky black hair fell wispy around her sapphire eyes as she stared up at Rothstein, parting her velvety smile just wide enough to slip his member into the wet warmth of her mouth._

_"Mmph," she moaned, from somewhere deep in the back of her throat, and within the snug constriction of her mouth, Rothstein felt the vibration of her moan shudder through the moist heat. "Arnold…" She ran his tip, throbbing and glossy, around her swollen lips as if she were putting on lipstick. Her lithe little fingers danced around his shaft, and as she moaned his name again, Rothstein felt the room spinning._

His fantasy was so intense that Rothstein shut his eyes tightly against it, willing it into reality.

"Alice…" he heard his voice whisper into the empty bedroom, and, embarrassed despite his solitude, he ignored it enough to focus on stroking himself.

Rothstein's arousal was heavy on his body, like a blanket made of lead, anchoring him to the bed so that he could scarcely move or breathe. He could see her, in his mind, suckling on his member like a child with a lollipop; as if it were the most delicious and pleasurable treat she'd ever been given. As he concentrated on the mental image he'd crafted, Rothstein felt a sensation of electrical charge come over his body where he lay on the bed. It was as if all the tiny hairs upon his form were on end. The tension spread and concentrated itself between his legs, and he felt his erection grow more firm and insistent in his hand. He groaned a bit as he rubbed his tip and shaft, wishing with all his might that it was not his fingers and palm upon his throbbing flesh, but rather Alice's delightful little mouth.

_She was holding fast to him for leverage, her small hands clutching anxiously at his broad hips as she steadfastly took him between her lips over and again. Rothstein grasped her head, snaking his fingers through her onyx hair, and thrust himself roughly into her mouth, feeling his tip bump the back of her throat. It was almost too much; he almost finished right then and there, and so he pulled himself out of her mouth for a brief moment to recover._

_"I want to taste you, Arnold," Alice was panting, her divine whisper jagged with excitement. "Let me taste you… Come on…_"

It was all wrong, Rothstein tried to scold himself, as he felt his scrotum tense and clench like a fist up against his trembling form. It was foul and iniquitous to imagine a casino worker he barely knew begging him to spill himself into her mouth. But when he heard her little voice pleading with him in the echoing cavern of his mind, Rothstein was only spurred to touch himself more vigorously.

He heard himself panting in the quiet of the room and tried desperately to steady his rickety breath. His entire body was hard – not just his rigid cock, but also the muscles of his legs and arms, taut and tense as he felt his climax approaching. There was a sense of a building wave, a tsunami gaining power as the torrid images and sounds in Rothstein's mind grew ever more imperative.

_"Come for me, Arnold," she was whispering, in between bouts of fellatio. "Please…"_

There was very little from Rothstein's rare fantasies that he acted out in real life. This image of the begging harlot was not something to which he was accustomed, not in tangible sexual experience. And, yet, the very thought of Miss Alice Cohen on her knees, pleading with Rothstein to finish in her mouth, injected him with a sense of authority and control that pushed him over the edge. In his mind, and in his bed, he came, a groan pulling itself from between his smooth lips.

_The pressure that had been building inside Rothstein's groin erupted like a spring let loose. In an explosion of pleasure, he felt his pelvic muscles spasm wildly, urging forth streams of his seed in an erratic and fervent fashion. Alice parted her lips just wide enough so that Rothstein could see the jets of viscous fluid land upon her tongue, and she moaned wantonly with every burst of his essence._

For a brief moment, just a flash, everything went completely blank in Rothstein's mind, and he was entirely lost from both his fantasy and his reality… he was suspended somewhere between. Then he came to, in a manner of speaking, and realized that he was indeed alone in his bed. His tensed muscles began to relax, starting with his fingers and toes and moving toward his core until at last his hips and groin were calm, too. The pounding in his ears slowed and faded as his heartbeat regulated. The ringing quieted, and the wave of pleasure subsided.

Rothstein was acutely aware of several things: first, that his abdomen was covered in little puddles of his seed and that he was sheened with sweat. He felt filthy, in so many different ways, and he heaved himself from his bed and ambled carefully into the en suite bathroom, reaching to turn on the hot water taps in the white-tiled shower stall. He adjusted the stainless steel Kohler taps until the water flowed in a scalding stream from above. Rothstein watched himself in the mirror with a steely gaze as he stripped off his nightshirt and underwear, placing them carefully in the hamper for dirty clothes that would be laundered by a nameless woman somewhere.

He took a small towel and wiped away the mess he'd made on his abdomen, and that towel, too, went into the hamper. With a final, disdainful glance into the steaming mirror, Rothstein stepped into the shower stall and sighed testily as the hot water coursed its way over his body. His hair became plastered to his skull; his body became slick with Ivory Soap as he scoured his skin with a bar of the stuff.

When at last he felt clean, or at least clean enough to go back to bed, Rothstein turned off the taps and stood for a long moment in silence in the shower. He felt his fists clench into swollen balls of anger at his sides and felt his chest heave with the undesirable loss of self-control he'd exhibited. Honestly. Masturbating to the thought of a near-stranger. He hardly knew her name, and he knew precisely nothing about her as a person.

After Rothstein had toweled himself off and wrapped himself in a cotton robe, he ambled slowly back to his bed and collapsed again between the sheets. This time, he fell asleep quickly and easily, lulled into slumber by the warm shower and the intense orgasm. He did not expect to wake until roused by his manservant at three o'clock in the afternoon… in just enough time to prepare for Miss Alice Cohen's six o'clock arrival at his office.

If, that is, she decided to come.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Tell me is there some-one_

_In the days that are to be_

_There's a girl for ev'ry boy in the world_

_There must be someone for me…"_

Alice Cohen finished carefully tracing her left eye with kohl and pulled back from the mirror. She hummed the Irving Berlin song distractedly and flashed herself a self-conscious little grin in the mirror. All right, she thought with a flare of doubt, this is as good as it's going to get.

She pulled on her silk stockings one at a time and scowled at the ceiling as the upstairs neighbors stomped across their floor like elephants. The man upstairs must weigh nine hundred pounds, Alice often thought, and his children must not realize that walking as opposed to running was the typical mode of self-transport when indoors.

Alice lived in a run-down apartment in Alphabet City in the East Village. Her squat little red brick building sat sadly on Avenue A. The windows on Alice's garden apartment were covered from the inside with plywood in an attempt to keep local ruffians from smashing them with baseballs or rocks.

It didn't have to be like this, and Alice's parents hardly approved. Alice came from money, after all. She'd been raised uptown, in a plush home on Fifth Avenue, raised by a Jewish furrier father and his social butterfly of a wife. Life in the Silk Stocking District had been kind to Alice, and her childhood had been pleasant and serene. She'd been extensively trained in voice and violin, and in 1919, when she was eighteen years old, Alice had informed her parents that she intended to pursue the life of a performer rather than the life of a debutante.

Horrified, her mother had nearly fainted in the garden the day Alice had given her the news. Alice's father, meanwhile, had hemmed and hawed and panted and yelled.

"You will be prostituting yourself!" he had insisted. "Sing as a hobby, Alice! Do not make yourself into a… a… Jezebel… by turning your life upside down in the name of performing!"

But Alice had insisted, and she'd spent the past two years trying desperately to break into the world of Broadway, of theatre and dance and recording and cabaret. Nothing had panned out successfully. She'd been a chorus girl two or three times. She'd sung in seedy speakeasies, nowhere she'd dare invite her parents to come see her. Nothing paid the bills, and so she'd taken up employment as a cashier in a casino where she'd sung a few times. Even that job just barely afforded her the cruddy studio apartment that she called home.

A few times in the past two years, Alice's parents had tried to convince her to come home. They'd offered money and support if only Alice would surrender her efforts to make it as a performer. Alice always refused their help. What they didn't know was that she'd already given up her dreams of life as an entertainer. She'd received one too many rejections to be so delusional as to carry on believing that life would pan out, but she was too proud to admit it to her parents, and too proud to go home with her head hung low.

"You look too… serious," Alice had always been told. "Your hair is dark. Your eyes are piercing. You're short and thin. You just don't look happy."

Managers and producers wanted girls with plump cheeks and slim bodies, girls with blond waves and dimples and a glowing tan. They didn't want Alice's raven bob, the sharp angles of her cheekbones and jaw, the penetrating azure of her gaze or the long lines of her nose. They didn't want her alabaster flesh or her skinny limbs or her tiny frame. It didn't matter what dulcet, honeyed tones came from betwixt Alice's lips. Her voice didn't matter when she didn't have the look.

And, yet, Arnold Rothstein had seen something in Alice. The man they called "The Big Bankroll" had stared at her as though she had been the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen when she'd checked him out at the speakeasy. And Alice had stared back, for the famous gambler had been more intimidating in person than she'd ever imagined he could be. She didn't fear him, per se… not the way that she feared so many other men who came through that sleazy, squalid club. She didn't think he would physically attack her or pull a gun or anything like that. No. It was his authority that was intimidating, and also the sheer wealth that was so visible.

He'd given her five hundred dollars as a tip. Alice wasn't supposed to accept tips, but he'd given her very little in the way of choice, essentially walking away with the money left on the counter. What was Alice to do? Five hundred dollars was more than she made in a half a year.

And then there'd been the invitation.

"Please do come to my office on West 57th Street, tomorrow evening, around six," Rothstein had said smoothly, just before stalking away from the counter, leaving Alice completely speechless.

Alice knew about Arnold Rothstein. Everybody knew about Arnold Rothstein. He was the most famous gambler in the country. Just a few months prior, Rothstein had been involved in a suspected conspiracy surrounding the Travers Stakes horse race. The controversy involved two racehorses, one called Sporting Blood and one called Grey Lag, and Rothstein's involvement in driving up odds on his own horse. Ultimately, it was known that Rothstein had pocketed over a half million dollars from the race, but nothing illegal could be proven against him.

Now there were whispers (and mumblings and shouts) that he had diversified his business holdings into the bootlegging industry. Prohibition was only a year old as a concept, and already, it was said that Rothstein had made a fortune on the concept. That was in spite of the fact that he was known to be a bit of a teetotaler himself – Alice had heard that he much preferred milk over whisky, and indeed had seen him with a glass of milk in the casino the night before… just before he'd plopped five hundred dollars in front of Alice and flirted with her and asked her to come to his office.

So now here she was, straightening the sea foam green silk dress her mother had sent her for her birthday. Alice ran her boar-bristle brush through her straight bobbed black locks once more and carefully placed her straw cloche hat atop her head. With a shaky sigh, she departed the apartment, leaving the sounds of stomping upstairs neighbors behind.

The subway was crowded with men returning home from work, and Alice was nervous and self-conscious to be riding it alone. She breathed a deep sigh of relief when she disembarked the train at 57th Street, and she walked the three blocks to Rothstein's office with a purpose. By the time she arrived at the office building, it was five minutes to six.

Alice double-checked the address she had written down and stepped anxiously into the lobby of the building. A uniformed doorman stopped her at the entryway almost immediately, holding out his hand as politely as he could manage.

"Excuse me, Miss," the doorman said gently. "Who are you here to see?"

"Mr. Rothstein," said Alice, knowing she must look and sound the complete fool. Indeed, the doorman looked very skeptical.

"Your name, please?" he demanded.

"Alice Cohen."

"Wait here, please," the doorman said firmly, leaving Alice alone at the revolving front door. He walked briskly to a desk and picked up a candlestick telephone. "Hello," he said gruffly into the phone. "I've got a young lady downstairs who says she is here to meet with Mr. Rothstein." The doorman paused. "Miss Alice Cohen." He paused again, and then the expression on his face changed dramatically, and he looked very surprised. "I see. She will be up presently."

He hung up the telephone and walked as quickly as he could – ran, really – across the lobby back to Alice.

"I apologize if I was rude earlier, Miss," he said hurriedly. "The elevator is just this way, if you please, and Mr. Tucker will operate it for you and escort you up to Mr. Rothstein's office quarters…"

Everything happened far more expeditiously after that, and Alice had a feeling that the doorman had been informed on the telephone that Alice was very much an expected guest. For some reason, the nervousness that this thought brought on made Alice abruptly nauseated.

Once Alice arrived upstairs, a plump gray-haired man with a bow tie showed her through a winding hallway and into a pleasant sort of parlor. The walls were paneled in a wood whose grain was best described as "exotic." There was a dark green marble fireplace (unused now, of course, it being summer) and several plush sofas facing one another. The gray-haired man gestured to one of the emerald-colored sofas as if to invite Alice to sit. She did, carefully crossing her ankles and setting her handbag beside her.

"If you'll be so kind as to wait just a few minutes, Mr. Rothstein is in a meeting but will be with you momentarily," the gray-haired man informed Alice. "He knows you are here."

"Thank you very much." Alice smiled weakly, as nervous as she'd ever been. The man nodded and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Then there was silence in the room except for the ticking of a Swiss clock on the mantle of the fireplace.

Alice stared at the clock and tried to ignore her racing mind. She watched as four minutes passed on the clock. After the fourth minute of seriously doubting herself and what she was doing here and whether or not Mr. Rothstein was ever going to come, the door opened behind her, and Alice jumped, completely startled. She whirled over her shoulder to see Arnold Rothstein slowly shutting the door behind him and smiling pleasantly at her.

For some odd reason she couldn't quite understand, the sight of Mr. Rothstein's little smirk made Alice gulp. It was handsome, in its own way. Rothstein was not a frightening physical specimen. He was neither overly tall nor terribly well built. He was not hulking, and he carried himself in such a way as to convey utter calm and control rather than bodily intimidation. Yet, Alice shivered at the sight of him.

She shivered, and then she furrowed her brow, confused by her own reaction. Alice surveyed Arnold Rothstein as he stood in front of the door, trying to discern what was so interesting about him after all.

His eyes were at once bright and dark. There was a sort of depth in them, a profundity and seriousness behind the vivid friendliness he was clearly trying to convey. His thick eyebrows were raised in an expression of welcome, but beneath it all, Alice could see a weary sort of urgency.

His smile, too, was disingenuous. Sure, the corners of his lips were turned up, but there was nervousness there beneath an attempt to be intimidating and in control of the room. Alice could tell that Rothstein was anxious, perhaps more than she was, and that made her all the more confused.

She realized she'd been staring for an awkwardly long moment, and she jarred herself from her reverie. She pulled herself to her feet and extended a hand as confidently as she could.

"Mr. Rothstein," she said, her own lack of confidence obvious in her trembling voice and her twitching smile.

"Miss Cohen." Rothstein's voice was chilly, distant.

"Please, it's Alice." She smiled then, just a little upward flick of her lips, and Rothstein gestured for her to sit again. As Alice took her seat, she noticed Rothstein examine the cushion of the sofa opposite her. He brushed it off, seemingly distracted by the presence of some lint upon its velveteen surface. Then, finally, he unbuttoned his suit jacket so that he could sit, and he sank down onto the cushion.

"Well, Miss Cohen," Rothstein began, "I want to tell you the reason I asked you to come today. When you informed me last night that you were a singer, I thought it would be worth a bit of my time to examine that avenue of possibilities further for my own establishments. I saw you in the casino last night and found your… well, your 'look,' to be different and… appealing in nature. Then I come to be informed that you are an entertainer."

Alice felt her cheeks flush, whether from flattery or fear, she could not say.

"I'm a novice, and, quite frankly, an amateur," she admitted, feeling her heart sink a bit. "No one's ever given me a chance to make it my profession."

"I find myself very willing to take my chances. You see, Miss Cohen, I am a gambler. By that I do not mean to say that I occasionally partake in gambling for pleasure or sport. It is what I do; it is how I make my living. I only make a bet when I very firmly believe I am going to win. That's why I'd like to hear you sing."

Alice felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. What was she supposed to do? Was she supposed to suddenly break out into song, right here in Arnold Rothstein's office? This entire situation was strange and unusual, she thought distantly to herself as she furrowed her eyebrows and stared at her lap. She cleared her throat anxiously and licked her lips, saying nothing.

"Well, Miss Cohen?" Arnold Rothstein pressed gently, and Alice looked up to see that the lines of his face had softened into an expression of expectation. It was a very appealing expression. Alice scolded herself for that observation.

"I beg your pardon?" she repeated, trying to distance herself from reflections upon Rothstein's winsome appearance.

"Will you sing for me, please?" Rothstein repeated politely. He laced his fingers over his right knee and smiled with an appropriately courteous degree of anticipation.

"Oh." Alice gulped and felt herself snap to her senses. She nodded briskly and stared out the window, trying to think of a song to sing. The first one to pop into her head was a new popular tune by Irving Berlin. So, she began to sing a cappella, staring out the window all the while, too nervous and self-conscious to look at Arnold Rothstein while she sang.

She sang with emotion, her voice trembling the slightest bit from nerves. The rich alto timbre of her voice sounded lush and warm in the

"All by myself I get lonely, watching the clock on the shelf. I'd love to rest my weary head on somebody's shoulder. I hate to grow older all by myself…"

She reached the end of the song and forced herself to drag her eyes to the center of the room and face the great Arnold Rothstein himself. When she saw the look of awe in his hazel eyes, Alice gulped heavily. Rothstein looked almost confused, as if he had just now noticed that Alice was in the room. Alice felt her eyes prickle with hot tears all of a sudden, tears that she neither expected nor wanted.

Very self-consciously, Alice looked down at her sea foam green skirt smoothed wrinkles that weren't really there. She was desperate to avoid the searing, searching gaze of Arnold Rothstein.

"Well," Rothstein said almost disbelievingly, after a painfully long moment, "That was lovely."

Alice worriedly examined his shining eyes for more indication of emotion, of opinion, of something indicating whether or not the word "lovely" had simply been a platitude. Perhaps, Alice told herself, Mr. Rothstein had been mistaken and now knew it. Perhaps her voice had failed so thoroughly to impress him that the very most he could create by way of compliment was the word "lovely." Alice's eyes prickled again as she began to doubt herself heavily. But then Mr. Rothstein must have seen the downcast look in Alice's glistening eyes, because he suddenly burst out and said hurriedly,

"Truly, Miss Cohen, they were the loveliest notes ever these ears have heard."

Alice felt one of her doubtful, self-conscious tears trickle down her alabaster cheek. She was powerless to stop it. It crept from her sapphire eye in a sad, slow trail until it dropped morosely onto her silk skirt. Seeing this, Arnold Rothstein quickly pulled a clean linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to Alice with a soothing little smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Rothstein," Alice murmured, her voice little more than an embarrassed whisper. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, wiping away evidence of her self-doubt. Then, folding the linen square neatly, she noted the embroidered monogram upon it: A.R.

"Keep it, please," she heard Rothstein say gently, holding up a hand in protest when Alice tried to hand the handkerchief back across the space between the sofas. Alice nodded gratefully and tucked the handkerchief into the little black beaded purse she had brought with her.

"Mr. Rothstein," she said, clearing her throat and licking her lips as she approached the delicate subject of the money Rothstein had given her as a tip the night before, "I simply can not accept five hundred dollars from you."

She pulled an envelope from the little black purse which contained the same bills Mr. Rothstein had given her the night before. She held them out in a trembling hand and once again Rothstein held up his hand in rejection. "You keep that, too," he said. "That's advance payment for singing in my casino on 42nd Street. You see, I have majority ownership in a club there that's, well, faltering. The casino operators have a bit of difficulty keeping the players coming in time and again. We'll see a man come in for a poker game once… he's amused for a night but loses all of his money and we never see him again. Perhaps if we had some good entertainment - say, a beautiful woman singing, lulling him into a stupor as he drunkenly hands over his money - he is more like to do it repeatedly."

Alice furrowed her eyebrows. She didn't know how to process what Mr. Rothstein had just said. It was possibly the most backhanded compliment she had ever received. She would be a sort of drug, then, for men losing their hard-earned money while their wives paced at home wondering where they were.

"Mr. Rothstein," Alice said hesitantly, wringing her hands in her lap and chewing upon her scarlet lip, "I very much appreciate the opportunity, but I've given up hope that a life as an entertainer is going to pan out for me."

Rothstein looked confused. He cocked his head and smiled crookedly. "I am offering you employment as an entertainer," he stated, "and thus it would seem as though things are indeed 'panning out' splendidly."

Alice nodded reluctantly. She stared at Rothstein again as she pondered her options. She contemplated what the change of career would mean for her lifestyle. She could go back to being comfortable again. She could move out of the dingy garden apartment with the stomping overhead neighbors and into someplace nice. Maybe she could live somewhere where her parents could visit her without her feeling ashamed and judged. Maybe.

"Would you care to discuss your employment over a meal?" Rothstein asked politely after a very long moment of being absently scrutinized.

Alice flicked the corners of her lips up cautiously. "Certainly," she agreed with a little nod. "Thank you."

Rothstein stood and proffered a hand to Alice to help her stand. Alice took it and pulled herself up, noticing how warm and soft his hand was. When she rose, she found herself standing much closer to Rothstein than she expected to do. She was near enough to him to smell his aroma - honey mingled with leather. She could see the shadow of stubble peeking through his cheeks and chin, and she could feel the natural heat radiating from his body. She could hear his breath come steadily through his nostrils and could see her own reflection in his eyes. Close up, he seemed far more manly and, yes, intimidating. He was not exceptionally tall for a man, though he was tall enough at nearly six feet. As for Alice, she was nearly a foot shorter than him, so she found herself at eye level with his sternum, staring up into his hazel eyes.

She felt her lips part in wonder as his gaze trapped her without warning, and she realized that she'd not yet let go of his hand. Suddenly, Rothstein's breath grew quicker and more shallow, and in his deep hazel eyes Alice saw intense and abrupt panic forming. She was having trouble reading him; he seemed to be wracked with inner turmoil or angst or something of the sort, and yet he was still holding Alice's hand.

"When is the last time," Rothstein began, his whisper cracking a bit, "that someone told you what a beautiful woman you are?"

Alice felt her knees shake and go weak as she literally swooned, taken aback by the romantic flirtation. She blinked rapidly and suppressed a wide grin, instead chewing upon her bottom lip anxiously. She giggled self-consciously under her breath and answered,

"I don't think a man has ever told me that before."

"No?" Rothstein asked, and Alice saw his confidence grow measurably. "They were all fools, then, not to make such an obvious observation." Rothstein closed the small gap between them with a small step, and he reached boldly to cup Alice's face in his free hand. When she felt the warm softness of his palm upon her cheek, Alice let her eyes flutter shut and smiled contentedly to herself.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny voice demanded to know what exactly she was doing. She scarcely knew this man. She didn't know him as a personal acquaintance. She only knew what she'd read in newspapers and heard whispered in casinos, and none of that was very flattering. And, yet, Arnold Rothstein been nothing but kind and charming both last night and this evening, and he was handsome and cultured and educated. That was all far more than Alice could say for nearly any man in the world.

Of course, he was involved in illegal activities. And then there was the fact that he was a married man.

None of that seemed to matter much anymore to Alice when Rothstein murmured gently, "May I kiss you, Alice?"

Alice kept her eyes shut, but she nodded as she felt her lips curl upward. Why was she letting him do this? She was being a fool, a complete and utter promiscuous harlot, in standing here accepting money and kisses and employment simultaneously. Her father had been right. She was a prostitute of sorts, wasn't she?

Just as Alice began to lash herself with her mental scolding, she felt the soft press of Rothstein's lips against hers. His pillowy mouth touched very gently against her own for the briefest of moments, just long enough for Alice to register a pleasant warmth tingling throughout her veins. Alice found herself kissing him back suddenly, planting quick but deep kisses upon Rothstein's soft lips and brushing her tongue along the inside of his mouth.

She felt him pull away then, and the sadness that followed tugged at her muscles. When Alice opened her eyes with a little flutter, she could see Rothstein's hazel gaze glittering with a fiery lust, indicating some loss of control of his normally steely countenance. Alice wasn't sure what was coming next. As badly as her body ached to find out, her mind told her that if she was to be employed by this man, some miniscule degree of professionalism had to be maintained between them. Besides, she did not know him well enough to bare herself to him, emotionally or physically.

"I think perhaps… perhaps I might ask you for a rain check on that meal," Alice gulped heavily, and she gently pulled her hand from Rothstein's. She smoothed her silk skirts as Rothstein took a small step back from her. He ran the pad of his thumb over his lower lip as he stared at the ground in obvious embarrassment.

"I'm - I'm very sorry if I've offended you," Rothstein began, but Alice cut him off.

"You've done no such thing. I just like to know the men I kiss before I kiss them." Alice smiled as warmly as she could, trying desperately to diffuse the situation. "It's my policy."

"And have you kissed enough men so as to require a 'policy'?" Rothstein demanded with a skeptical grin. Alice shook her head no in admittance, and Rothstein did not press the issue. Instead, he pulled a business card from a jacket pocket and handed it to Alice. "Please come to the casino on 42nd street tomorrow at seven in the evening," he said officiously. "It is located just above Martin's Delicatessen. By the way, they've got exquisite cheesecake there…"

Alice took the business card and tucked it into her little black purse. She nodded gratefully. "I will be there at six-thirty," she agreed.

"Well…" Rothstein looked quite pleased with himself that he'd managed to set up another meeting with Alice, even if he'd been shut down in his attempts to connect with her physically this evening. "I shall see you on the morrow then, mademoiselle. If you insist on leaving, may I show you out?"

As Rothstein and Alice rode the elevator down to the lobby of the building, he asked pleasantly, "How are you getting home, Alice?"

It was the first time he'd so casually called her by her first name, and Alice liked it quite a lot. She grinned at herself in the reflective metal door of the elevator and said simply, "I'm taking the subway."

"You'll do no such thing," Rothstein said firmly, shaking his head. "I will have my car brought around for you."

And so he did, and when the burgundy Packard pulled up in front of the office building, he held the door for Alice himself, shooing away the driver impatiently. Alice grinned a bit, thinking to herself that Rothstein probably very rarely held the car door for himself, much less for others.

"Have a pleasant evening," Rothstein said lightly through the open doorway, once Alice had been settled into the backseat.

"Thank you for meeting with me." Alice smiled through the window and nearly winked at him. What was going on with her? Didn't she have more self-control than this? "I shall see you tomorrow."

Rothstein shut the door and peered through the open window. "Indeed you shall. I am very, very much looking forward to it."

* * *

**Author's Note: I sincerely apologize for the very long break in updating. I had a baby on October 15th and haven't been able to write since then. He was actually due on November 11th but was born 4 weeks early. He is perfectly healthy and we have settled into our happy little routine at home now, so hopefully I can get some writing done while he is asleep napping or using Speech-to-Text software while he eatis.**


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